The Underground
by FifthAttempt
Summary: After the election, everything changes. People you thought you knew become strangers and life is turned upside down.
1. Chapter 1

_I was, as many were, dismayed, disappointed, discouraged, and depressed by the outcome of the election. I had started a light-hearted, family-oriented storyline about Castle and Beckett's little girl and, maybe, at some point, I'll get back to that, but not for a while. In the meantime, there's this._

 _I'm postulating an AU future where Donald Trump, as President-elect is tried and found guilty of various felonies. As a convicted felon he is unable to go on as President so his Vice-President, Michael Pence, is now President._

 _For those of you who are offended by my view of an America under the governance of an extremely conservative Congress and a man who has indicated at every turn that he feels that this country should be a theocracy – I'm not sorry for my views. But do remember, this is a work of fiction._

 _I don't own Castle._

The man carefully inserted the disk that would reformat his hard drive, hopefully wiping the evidence of his activities away – at least sufficiently to keep the government from finding it too soon. He had been careful, at least as careful as he could be, to keep his activities off the grid. He took the thumb drive that held the data he'd gleaned and hid it in a place where, as the old saying had it, "the sun don't shine". It wasn't comfortable, but he hoped it would discourage searchers should he be caught.

He, Richard Castle, was a wanted man. He was considered seditious, treasonous, an enemy of the state. Even his past writings, best-selling novels that had been considered thriller-fluff, were being pulled from libraries and bookstores because of "treasonous content". It was getting harder and harder to keep from being a traitor, as more and more things were pronounced seditious by the current government. Permits for government sanctioned book burnings had been given in some areas, and there was talk of mandatory book burning in the future. He had been driven underground and his family and friends had been forced to disavow him or suffer imprisonment and worse.

It had not been hard for his wife. She had simply faded back into her police work; only now instead of investigating homicides, she headed a unit that investigated people like him - intellectuals, thinkers, questioners - because these things were now considered, by some, to be worse than murder. While it had disappointed him that she had chosen to unquestioningly follow the new administration; it hadn't surprised him.

His daughter and mother stayed together, without him. It wasn't because they disagreed with him, but because, after the election, his mother's health had taken a decided turn for the worse. She had always been an ebullient, youthful, life-loving, playful woman. Suddenly, she had become old, frightened, and sick. There was no way she could follow him into the fringes where he had to live now. The medical care she needed, as difficult as it was to come by under the new Administration, was impossible to find where he was. Alexis stayed with her to care for her and fight the battles she could no longer fight for herself. Ethan Slaughter was with them. He was back on the force, his actions when he had been in the Gangs Unit, dicey and shady as they had been before, were considered by the new America to be heroic and praiseworthy. The strange thing was that his association with Castle and his family had altered his perception of his past behavior and he was finding it harder to continue the borderline activities that were now completely legal. He was an essentially good man and he stayed to protect Martha and Alexis. Alexis, who was finding it increasingly difficult to be a pretty, young, unattached woman in a country that, more and more, considered pretty, young, unattached women to be prey had reluctantly welcomed his protection.

Hayley, as soon as the new President-elect had been announced, had, regretfully, said her goodbyes. She could not, she said, function effectively in the new America. She was a woman of color and an immigrant, unwanted in his country. She had gone to Canada where the political mistakes of her native England and the resurgent misogyny and racism of his country couldn't reach as easily. She stayed in contact with Castle's family as much as she could, though communication with what the New America was beginning to term an "enemy state" was difficult.

Espo and Ryan had had the same dismayed reaction to the political developments; but with very different responses. Espo had simply quit the force, taking Lanie with him. A Latino man and a woman of color, no matter how accomplished, how courageous, how determined, how intelligent, would not be able to serve effectively, especially in support of a government that would not support them. They were with Castle: Espo teaching military and police tactics: Lanie providing much needed, though severely limited, medical care. Ryan stayed on, not to blindly serve, but in hopes of working within the system to change the system. He had said that he probably couldn't do much, but as a white man with a badge and a gun, he could do something.

Victoria Gates and her family, husband, sons, sister, had decided to stay. She was, though an African-American woman, highly placed as Deputy Chief of Police. Her sister was also placed advantageously in the AG's office. They felt they were well-positioned to help stem the tide they knew was coming. They would, they reasoned, use all legal means to counter the more extreme actions of the new America.

Castle removed the disk and considered what to do next. Computers were hard to come by, easily compromised, and absolutely necessary to what he was doing. Reformatting the hard drive was risky, there were ways a good technician could recover the data, but destroying it was out of the question. These were things you used until they couldn't be used any more just because they were so hard to get. Two years ago, shortly after the election, his laptop had been brand-new, state-of-the-art; now it was showing signs of overuse and abuse. He desperately needed a new one, but, without access to his money and with computer sales being subject to background checks and restrictions based on things like race, gender-preference, religion, political views, it was impossible for him to acquire one legally. He laughed without humor. In this America, anyone could legally buy a gun, but almost no one could legally get a computer.

He stood up, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out, then stretching. He got ready to leave this latest hideout. He'd been here too long already and if he wasn't careful one of the periodic sweeps that the National Guard had been commissioned to do would catch him. Another thing he found humorous without actual humor; the National Guard was all too ready to follow the dictates of the President of the New America. They would hunt down and capture anyone they were told was an "enemy of the state"; and they weren't always careful to see that they were taken alive. The regular military wasn't willing to do that, citing the Uniform Code of Military Justice regarding illegal orders. As a result, the regular military was slowly being replaced by the National Guard and militarized police – and there were plenty of eager recruits waiting to fill the ranks of both.

He gathered his belongings, and put on his ghilly suit: then he checked and double-checked to make sure that he was leaving nothing behind. As soon as it was dark, he slipped outside and, skirting the edges of the road, moved silently northward.

It had taken him an hour to walk a mile. Several times he had taken cover as he heard voices or car engines, waiting for several minutes after they had passed before moving on. It wasn't a heavily travelled road or it would have taken him much longer.

He stopped at the mile marker and went into the bushes at the side of the road. After a short time he found what he was looking for and removed the camouflaging material. The motorcycle was not, as he had dreamed, a Harley. It was a newer model BMW: fast, silent, and unobtrusive. Barring unforeseen difficulties, he would be able to make the three hundred miles to his group's temporary headquarters before dawn.

He stopped at the mile marker and went into the bushes at the side of the road. After a short time he found what he was looking for and removed the camouflaging material. The motorcycle was not, as he had wistfully hoped, a badass chopped Hog, it was a newer model BMW: fast, silent, and unobtrusive. Barring unforeseen difficulties, he would be able to make the three hundred miles to his group's temporary headquarters before dawn.

He removed his camouflage suit and proceeded to do what he could to change his appearance so that he would be less recognizable as Richard Castle. There were limits he had to work within. He couldn't appear as a man of color, because the motorcycle was financially out of reach of that demographic. He couldn't disguise himself as a woman because a woman alone, even one as ugly as he would have been, was subject to harassment and assault. He was limited to maintaining a white, male identity. He did what he could with padding, false hair, contact lenses, and fake tan. His nose and size, though would be hard to disguise. He then turned himself to the motorcycle. He checked to make sure the onboard GPS was disabled. This was risky because the government required that all vehicles be equipped with a functioning GPS that was tied in to their system and all traffic cops were equipped with GPS detectors. He tinkered and fretted for a time, but finally he had to pronounce himself ready to run the gauntlet.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ok, I didn't want to do this, but some of you have posted reviews that require response. And, since you all reviewed under the sobriquet_ guest _and I am only computer semi-literate and could not determine how to pm you, this will have to be public: I will break it down for you._

 _1 – I am not a millennial, I'm a boomer, specifically, I'm a seventy-year old woman (ok, I'm only 69, but who's counting?)._

 _2 – I do not delete reviews – not even those that constitute ad hominem attacks on me and my opinions. If reviews were deleted, look elsewhere, it wasn't me. That said. It would be appreciated if you reviewed my story – was it good, well-written, believable, or unbelievably stupid – and not my opinions._

 _3 – I have opinions – you don't like them. You have opinions – I may not like them. That's life. Suck it up, buttercup. Stop acting like the millennial you thought I was._

 _4 – Writers write what they want to write. Readers read what they want to read. If you don't like what I write – don't read it. I'm not changing myself or my mode of expression to please others. My stories are not your safe space._

The motorcycle, dark-colored as clothes he wore, barely discernable from the road he drove it on, sped silently and smoothly to the north. He smiled, grimly; it was a responsive machine, hardly needing more than a hint of a touch to direct it where he wanted. The Harley might have been a child's dream, but this was an adult's. It was such a seductive toy, that he almost lost himself in the pure joy of driving it – almost: until he saw lights ahead, just over a rise. He slowed, then stopped. The lights were stationary and he didn't remember there being a fuel stop, rest area, or any structures in the vicinity that could account for them. He dismounted and walked the bike to the edge of the road, concealing it in some bushes; then he made his way, slowly, to the top of the rise.

As he suspected, it was a roadblock. Whether they were looking for him or it was merely a curfew check was irrelevant; anyone out after curfew was automatically suspect and subject arrest and jail.

He returned to the bike, as carefully and silently as possible. He was about half a mile from them, so there was a good chance, since he was driving without lights, using the infrared sensors in his helmet, that they weren't aware of his presence. He moved himself and the bike further back into the brush.

He contemplated the situation for about half an hour. He was familiar enough with this stretch of highway, but not with any back roads nearby, and he couldn't check for alternate routes without triggering their web sensors. He decided that there was nothing to do but dig in for what he hoped would be a short wait.

He heard footsteps and voices, male and female, moving towards him and tried very hard to shrink into the landscape. It was a little before 4:00 am. Dawn was at 5:30, and he didn't have much time. He heard the crunch of steps come even closer, then stop, probably 30 feet from him. His left leg was cramping up, but he remained absolutely still.

"Do you think he could have turned around, maybe found another road?"

"Do you think he even existed? The caller said he couldn't be sure, that what he saw could have been nothing more than a shadow. What he described sounded like it was either a phantom of imagination or cutting edge military tech. Do you really think they have access to that kind of tech?"

"I doubt it. But, every time we don't act on information, even dubious information, we risk loss. If they do have the tech, we have to find out."

"Yeah, but if we keep trying to find it when they don't have it, we're just wasting resources that can be better used elsewhere."

Castle resisted the impulse to move forward and check on the owners of the voices, but they sounded familiar. It had been a very long time since he'd heard them, but it he was certain it was his wife – ex-wife – Kate, and Ryan. He allowed a small smile. Ryan would deflect Kate soon enough. He would have become adept at it. He listened as the steps receded into the dark, the voices became fainter. He slowly moved his cramped left leg and began massaging it. He would wait half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, then check on the status of the roadblock. It would be near dawn by then. He didn't want to ride in daylight, but if he had to, he would. He had to get to his people before they bugged out.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, it was grayish light: pre-dawn, and brightening rapidly. He shook himself into alertness; he could really use a cup of coffee – even the underground's crap. Moving slowly, he rose unsteadily, first to his knees, then his feet. He moved a step towards the road, then another – ready to sink back into the cover of the scraggly trees and thorny brush at the first sign of danger.

At the edge of the road, he saw footprints, which had obliterated his tire tracks; a fact that made him smile – more a grimace than a smile, but intended to show something akin to – not displeasure. He looked both ways and saw nothing coming from either direction. Light though it was, it was still dark enough to require lights. Keeping to the edge of the road, ready to dive into the bushes, he moved to the top of the rise. Maintaining what he hoped was an unobtrusive, unnoticeable crouch, he looked down to where the roadblock had been just an hour before. Gone: except for a lone watcher, who appeared to be asleep, they were gone. He quickly formulated a plan.

He made quick time back to the motorcycle. He rummaged through the saddlebags, finding food and caffeinated water, and to his satisfaction, a military grade sniper pistol, with a silencer. The ammunition consisted of tranquilizer rounds. He chugged the water, feeling the effects of the caffeine almost immediately, and hastily consumed a flavorless protein bar.

Checking everything quickly – the helmet, his boots, the action of the gun – he walked the bike back to the road. Again, watching for traffic, he started up the slight incline, pushing the bike until he reached the top.

The watcher was still there and still appeared to be sleeping. He positioned himself behind a convenient road sign (he wondered why it seemed that all road signs seemed to be located at the tops of rises), he took careful aim and fired. The watcher jerked up in what seemed like surprise, looked around, then, very slowly, slumped over. Because the round was a tranquilizer, and not an actual bullet, the sensors implanted in the person's body wouldn't register and transmit anything as abrupt as injury or death and would, therefore, not set off any alarms at his or her headquarters. Eventually, though, someone would note inactivity and come to check the guard. Castle mounted the bike and carefully started down the hill, slowly increasing velocity. By the time he reached his top speed, he was miles past the sentry-post, hopefully not being followed, and about forty minutes from Plattsburg, which was near his destination.

Ten miles south of Plattsburg, he turned off onto a gravel road and drove about five miles before stopping. It was full light now, the beginning of what would be a beautiful, warm, cloudless day. He pulled off the road, into a dilapidated shed that, from the outside, appeared as if it would collapse if someone looked at it crossly. He waited there for half-an-hour by the clock, listening – for cars, motorcycles, people on foot, dogs, helicopters – anything that would indicate that he had been noticed and followed. The only thing he saw was a heavily pregnant doe, who had regarded him with alarmed curiosity, then, deciding he was no threat, moved on. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, he started back up the road. Headquarters was another ten miles.

If he had been less tired, less stressed, he might have appreciated his surroundings. It was possibly the best of Upstate New York – woodlands, meadows, picturesque farms. He had, at one time, thought of living in the area and had, in hopes of starting a "hobby farm", bought land with a run-down nineteenth century farmhouse and outbuildings. He wished that it was the location of headquarters, but it was now in the hands of Kate Beckett-Castle (he wondered why she had kept his name, even in hyphenated form) – one of her rewards from a grateful nation (others being the loft, the house in the Hamptons, and the bulk of his bank account). He hoped she was taking good care of it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the overgrown yard in front of a derelict house. He was home.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: haters gonna hate. It's a story, hopefully unrelated to reality. If you don't like it, don't read it._

As much as the loft had meant to him; as much as he'd been proud of the house in the Hamptons; he had to admit, this place, this derelict, ramshackle house, this candidate for condemnation and demolition felt more like home than either of those places had, at least in recent years. Interesting how altered circumstances served to alter perspectives. He filed the thought away; if he ever was able to start writing again, he could use it. He wheeled the bike to the back of the house, put it in the decrepit barn, and retrieved the saddle bags. He noticed, as he exited, a similar motorcycle parked near the rear of the building; he went over to examine the machine. It wasn't just similar, it was identical, down to the paint job, the markings, the manufacturer's logo, the fittings – it even lacked a VIN. They had a guest.

Figuring that, whatever the nature of the guest, he had no other options, he left the barn and went into the house. He was prepared for a fight and was happily let down when he saw Hayley, in the kitchen, talking to Espo. He waved at them and headed to the bathroom.

He made his visit to the bathroom as short as possible, retrieving the thumb drive and tending to personal needs. He wanted to give the drive to Tory, another fugitive from the NYPD, as soon as possible, and then he wanted to sleep, but his curiosity about Hayley's visit was too compelling; he went back to the kitchen.

"Hayley, what brings you here? I'm delighted to see you, but I didn't think you'd ever set foot in the good, old USA again." He hugged her fiercely. She returned the hug with less ferocity but equal enthusiasm.

"I came to get one of your hugs, of course. You should patent them." Her posh British accent belied her English working class origins. "In fact, I needed to talk to you and your cadre and, as you've probably already noticed, deliver some equipment and materials to you."

"I _did_ wonder where that bike came from. I'm not going to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but it's certainly better than anything we could get on our own. The sniper-pistol was useful, too."

"Yes, well, we figured you needed more, and better, than the years-old-contraband you have."

"We?"

"You do have friends, you know. Now, as much as I hate to rush things, we have matters to discuss. Is there a place where we can talk more comfortably? Without fear of interruption?"

"Or eavesdropping? Yes. Let me get this drive to Tory, I'll meet you in what we laughingly call the conference room."

"Bring Tory, we'll need her and everyone in the group in this meeting."

He nodded.

The conference room was in the unfinished subbasement. It was not a comfortable, pleasant room. The floor was dirt, the walls were mossy, gray fieldstone. It was chilly, damp, and windowless. The lighting consisted of one incandescent 60-watt bulb hanging just far enough above the table to render it largely ineffective. They'd made it the conference/planning room because it was, at least they hoped it was, harder for government tech to monitor activity with layers of dirt and rock acting to buffer heat and web activity. It also served as a good place to hide random fugitives. There was even a bolt-hole leading to a cave and escape if it was ever needed.

When he and Tory entered the room, everyone was seated at the rickety conference "table", except for his father, who was on an assignment; Hayley and another surprise visitor were seated side by side in the uncomfortable seating provided for everyone. For once Castle was happy about that – no chance of him dozing off while in these chairs.

He greeted the other visitor warmly, "Vikram, what are you doing here? I thought you were still with the NYPD."

Vikram smiled wanly.

"That's part of why we're here, Rick," Hayley answered quickly, "and we'll get to it in good time." She paused and looked around. "Is everyone here?"

"Jackson Hunt is on an op. He probably won't be back for a day or two. Otherwise, everyone is accounted for."

"Hopefully that won't be a problem."

"What do you mean."

"We'll get to that in due time, but first things first. We know you've been trying to monitor events both in the US and abroad and that you've been hampered by poor or non-existent equipment, lack of numbers, and, most of all, lack of money. It's getting worse, and is not, in the foreseeable future, going to get better. The US government is intensifying its pressure on some populations and some undercover people are finding it difficult, if not impossible, to do their jobs. You haven't been in a position to know some things, but observers in Canada and other countries are seeing a situation that is becoming increasingly and uncomfortably like the situation leading up to World War II. So, for a bit of a recap: you know that, when the President was convicted of felonies and the Vice-President was sworn in as President, his first act was to issue a pardon to the ex-President and give him a newly created Cabinet position – Secretary of Corporate Affairs – which was given oversight over things like the EPA, the FDA, the FAA, and a couple of other agencies and proceeded, with the President's blessing, to dissolve them." She waited for that to be acknowledged. "That was when you first protested, wasn't it, Rick?"

He nodded.

She went on. "The President made a couple of other changes; he changed the thrust of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare by adding the word 'spiritual' to the mix. Only, instead of adding another dimension to the activities of the Department, it completely changed the direction of the Department, making religion an official, primary force in the government, without actually declaring a state religion. That was when you protested again, more loudly, more vocally."

Again, he nodded.

"He then 'requested' that a friend of his in Congress, introduce a bill redefining treason and sedition to include things like refusing to say 'under God' in the pledge of allegiance, sitting or kneeling during the National Anthem, posting 'questionable' material on social media, asking the wrong kind of questions, teaching unapproved material in school, unauthorized protests. The bill passed, not without dissent, and was signed into law. The Supreme Court declared that it would not hear cases concerning the law. That was when you were forced to go underground, wasn't it? You could say 'under God' with no problem. You could stand for the Anthem without issues. But you couldn't stop asking questions and posting opinions that were 'questionable', you couldn't support schools that taught 'by the book', you couldn't accept a Supreme Court that declined to do its job, and couldn't tolerate being unable to protest without permission.

A lot of people felt as you did. Some of them got out, some didn't, thinking that wealth and privilege would protect them. All it did was make them very big targets.

That was a year ago. Since then the police have, because of 'efficiency' and 'better training', been officially made part of the DoD, Indian Reservations have been dissolved and the First Nations (that's what we call them in Canada) have been told to forget their sacred lands and ways or leave the country, immigrants, both undocumented and legal, have been either deported or threatened with deportation – some of them, naturalized citizens, have been threatened with having their citizenship revoked. Certain crimes are no longer considered crimes or have been reduced to misdemeanor status – like statutory rape or the use of date-rape drugs. Other actions have been made criminal – like abortion, or getting birth control without spousal or parental, if you're an unmarried woman of any age, consent.

Taken separately, they all seemed very minor actions some may even have been seen as 'common sense'; a new cabinet post, an acknowledgement of religion in government, some new restrictions on dissent. There was a public eyebrow raised at the de facto militarization of the police, but no action was taken. Many people agreed that it was high time for those 'Indians' to stop being given 'privileged' status and that immigrants had become a problem and 'we needed to vet them better'. So, when most people looked at it, they weren't alarmed and some few were delighted.

Taken collectively, though, it was indicative of a frightening pattern – especially when politicians and judges who disagreed suddenly started 'retiring'." She stopped. "Any questions or comments? Corrections?"

Espo looked like he wanted to say something. She inclined her head toward him.

"Nah, I wanted to ask how people couldn't put it together, but I know the answer. The question's rhetorical."

Hayley turned back to the papers she held. She hadn't referenced them. It seemed she was holding them because she needed to do something with her hands and no other reason. She took a deep breath.

"This brings me to why I'm - we're - here." She glanced at Vikram.

"First, Rick, Beckett's getting married again. Her husband-to-be has asked for her financial settlement from you to be re-evaluated. He wants the money and property, Castle Investigations and The Old Haunt, that had been settled on Alexis and Martha, to be reassigned to her. It's likely that he'll get it, since he's an up and comer in the government. Ethan's been taking care of them to the best of his ability, but his association with the family of a 'traitor' has put him in the crosshairs, too.

Second, Ryan's finding it harder to function. He's under increasing scrutiny and his decisions and actions are being questioned. His family is also under surveillance.

Third, Gates has been forced to retire as Deputy Chief and her sister has been 'released from duty' by the AG's Office. She and her family are, at the moment, restricted to New York City.

There are others in similar situations, Espo's Tia Marisol, Lanie's parents and many people we don't know. Vikram, do you want to speak now?"

Vikram rose.

"I was, as you know, working, undercover, as an IT specialist for the NYPD. In the last few months, my work has been more closely examined. Last month someone called for an audit of my work. They found nothing that could be criticized, but I was terminated because there was a 'lack of faith' in my judgement due to my connection with a foreign government and a possible conflict of interest on religious grounds. When I tried to explain to them that I was Hindu and not Muslim, I was told that it made no difference, that there was no difference and that I could no longer work for them.

Since then, I have been harassed, even attacked, for being something I'm not. When I called for police help, it wasn't forthcoming. When I went to a hospital to be treated for injuries, I was denied treatment because I was a 'potential terrorist'. When I went to a pharmacy to get insulin and needles, I was told that they didn't have to serve me on religious grounds.

I was fortunate, because I was undercover, I had connections I could call to get me out. But this is happening now; not just in New York, but all over.

We need to work, as much as possible, to get vulnerable people out of there. I don't want to play favorites, but I think we should start with the people we know. We'll be more effective if we know our families and friends are safe, at least relatively safe."

Hayley rose, "We need to plan. We'll have help from the RCMP and the Canadian government, but it will be extremely limited because they can't, legally, act in the US without it being called an act of war, and they're not ready, quite yet, to go to war with the US.

Castle, you look exhausted. Get some sleep, we can work on this when you're better able to contribute. Espo, do you know where Hunt is supposed to be? Can you send someone to try to get him back here? I could be wrong, but I doubt that what he's doing is as important as what we're doing, and we. Need. His. Expertise."


	4. Chapter 4

As much as he wanted to sleep, he couldn't. It just wouldn't come. As long as he was active, doing things, working, he didn't have to think: didn't have to face his guilt. He knew the guilt was unreasonable, he knew the situation wasn't all on him, but there was still the guilt. He wondered if Kate was feeling the same.

Finally, unable to sleep, he wandered into the kitchen. Maybe, he thought some of Espo's terrible coffee would take his mind off the swirling thought-storm. He poured a cup, liberally doctoring it with milk and sugar (at least they could get those with some ease) in an attempt to mask the oily, nasty bitterness. He sat and nursed it with tiny sips. Drinking this coffee was kind of like removing a Band-Aid, he thought – did you do it all at once at get the pain over with, or did you do it in tiny increments to minimize the pain over a longer time? He shuddered, there was no good way to drink this coffee.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Maybe if he drank the coffee with his eyes closed it would help.

He was midway between sleep and wakefulness, half-dreaming miserable dreams, when Vikram came into the kitchen, jarring him to awareness.

Vikram was not a coffee lover. His sensibilities were more Asian/English; he liked his tea. Unfortunately for him, the tea available was just as anathema to his palate as the coffee was to Castle's. Undaunted, he made a cup with what was at hand and, like Castle, doctored it with milk and sugar to hide the execrable taste.

He sat across from Castle and regarded him for a good, long time. Finally, he spoke. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Can't"

"Why not?"

Castle opened one eye and looked at Vikram without favor. "I just can't."

"There's always a reason. Maybe you should talk about it."

"Don't want to."

"You might not want to, but I think you need to."

"What, are you a psychologist now?" He moved to leave.

Vikram stood up and stopped him. "Not a psychologist, just, I would hope, a friend. And a friend who gives a damn."

"I'm too tired to talk."

"Then sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"Then talk."

Castle glared, but he sat back down.

"Everyone knows, why discuss it?"

"I don't know. Tell me."

"Why?"

"Because, clearly you need to talk about it. Talking about it to me would do no harm, because who would I tell, since everyone already knows about it?"

"There is something wrong with your logic, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. Fine, I'll talk."

He laced his fingers together and rested them on his chest. Leaning back and closing his eyes, he began his story.

"Once upon a time, there were two people, a man and a woman, who had, once, been a boy and a girl. When they were a boy and a girl, they didn't know each other because, while privileged, they moved in completely different circles. He was the son of a prominent actress and an unknown father. She was the daughter of prominent, respected attorneys.

His biggest privilege was, that though his father was unknown, his mother never let him feel it. He had the security of always coming home to love and acceptance: of always coming home to a mother who was always there. It set the tone for life – love was always, security was always. It never had to be questioned, it just was.

Her biggest privilege was two parents, who loved her and who, she thought, would always be there.

The difference was that he kept his privilege. Hers was torn away from her. Her mother was a crusader who championed causes and people; this got her killed, violently. It left the girl in misery. It left her wondering if, somehow, the causes and people were more important than she was. She buried this treacherous thought until she thought it was gone – but it never left, it just hid. None of this would have left lasting scars if she had found support in the other important person in her life. Unfortunately, he reacted to his pain by jumping into a bottle just when his daughter needed him most. He fled from his pain, leaving her to deal with hers alone. She wondered if, somehow, the momentary oblivion he found in booze, was more important than she was. This was another treacherous thought to bury. She became the strong one, dealing with his pain and her own, growing up faster than she should have.

She coped. She fended off emotional involvement with brittle detachment. She buried herself, first in school and a feigned normalcy, then in her job. She became the best at what she did.

Then she met the boy, now a man, who had known nothing but love. He had followed his dreams. He had no hindrance put on him. He was spoiled, not in the sense of being a greedy, sociopath who felt entitlement, but because he had never known what real loss was. He was handsome, successful, wealthy, famous and, except for his mother and his wonderful, fantastic, lovable daughter, lonely.

He pursued the unattainable girl, now a woman, and somehow broke through her defenses and won her love.

They married. Together they fought through difficulties and obstacles and kept coming back to each other.

She became pregnant with a much-wanted child. Their happiness with life seemed never-ending. Then the unthinkable happened. He was away on a book-tour – which also included some political activism. She was home, alone. She miscarried – it was a high-risk pregnancy – she was in her late thirties and it was her first pregnancy. Her husband couldn't be reached. She left messages and he didn't respond. All her insecurities returned and hit her like a fist to the stomach. Once again she was abandoned. Once again the most important person in her life had found something more important than her.

When he returned, she rounded on him "You left us. You left us for your damned book and your damned causes. We needed you and you weren't there." He tried to find a way back in, but she wouldn't allow it.

The man who had known nothing but love was suddenly faced with a hatred as strong as the love once had been. The woman who had known only loss and abandonment, abandoned him." He stopped abruptly.

"Well, Vikram, do you think that will help? I don't. I lost my wife because I couldn't be there when she needed me. If I had been there, maybe she would be here now, instead of going after me, and my mother and daughter, and the people I care about, at every turn." He continued, "When I sleep, I dream. And that's what I dream about – what was, what is, what could have been. I can't stop the dreams and I can't change what happened."

Vikram was silent.

The two men sat, staring at their beverages until they turned cold, not meeting each other's eyes: not talking.

Unacknowledged tears fell for both of them.

Finally, Castle rose. "Hell, I don't know, maybe it will help. I'm going to try to sleep." He left.

Vikram sat, alone, with his cold, nasty tea.


	5. Chapter 5

Kate stood in the middle of the nursery. It had been decorated for a little girl named Katherine Alexandra: a little girl who'd never been born. She ran her hands over the white furniture, over the cloud quilt done in pink, white, green, and yellow flannel – flannel as soft and luxurious as velvet, over the stuffed animals. She tried to let herself cry but she couldn't, she choked on her tears.

She knew she should dismantle it and give it all away, but she wasn't ready to yet. She wasn't ready to let go of the daughter she had wanted so much.

There were a lot of things she needed to do – she needed to forget Rick, forget the cruel things she'd said to him, forget the dreams they'd had together. She needed to sell the house in the Hamptons, sell the loft, sell the Plattsburg farm. She needed to go through her things and discard the reminders of what they'd had together, what they could have had together. She needed to get rid of this life and find the Kate that was detached, logical, uncommitted. But she couldn't do that, not yet.

All she could do was fake it: as her father had often said 'fake it until you make it'.

She heard movement behind her and turned. Her father stood in the doorway. "Katie, you don't need to be in here torturing yourself."

"Where else should I be?"

"For starters, anywhere but here. You need to stop blaming yourself for what you couldn't help and start working on fixing what you can."

"What if it can't be fixed?"

"Katydid, for an intelligent and educated person, you can be damned oblivious." He took a step into the room and touched her elbow. "Come on, let's go downstairs and get a cup of coffee. You can talk to me about it."

"Why? You already know what happened."

"It's all second-hand, Kate, I don't know it from you."

She allowed herself to be led from the room; she'd be back.

Jim Beckett busied himself in the kitchen, preparing coffee and lunch for the two of them. He put the coffee and food in front of her and then sat across from her with his own. "Eat, I don't care if you think you're hungry or not, eat. You've lost a good twenty-five pounds that you just can't afford. After you've eaten, we're going to talk, or, rather you're going to talk. I'm going to listen."

Grudgingly, she took a spoonful of soup, then a bite of sandwich and a sip of coffee. She realized that she was ravenous and without quite knowing what she was doing, she finished everything in front of her and was looking for seconds.

"Good," her father said. "You haven't eaten a decent meal in months – banquets and business dinners where you push rubber food around your plate and drink too much bad wine don't count."

"I didn't know how hungry I was."

"I know. Now, talk."

"What's there to say that you don't already know?"

"Quite a bit, I suspect. Don't forget, Katie, I've been where you are."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Loss, no matter who you've lost, is still loss. I lost your mother, the love of my life, then I lost myself and, for a time, lost track of you. So, I have a world of loss, pain, and guilt to draw on. You've been down that road, so you should really know better than to go down it again. Yet here you are."

"I'm fine, Dad."

"You're not fine, Katie. You're still at the anger stage. You're angry with yourself, but you've decided to redirect toward Castle. Believe me, he has enough to deal with without dealing with your anger and hatred. Maybe the two of you won't get back together, but you need to forgive – first forgive yourself, then you can forgive him. At least end it on a high note.

"It's not that easy."

"Why?"

"Forget that he wasn't here when I needed him, he's broken the law. He's a traitor. He's working for the overthrow of the government."

"Excuses. You want revenge for something he didn't do."

"He's still a traitor. Regardless of what I think, he's a traitor and an outlaw."

"Katie, do you remember any of the history you studied? Stanford is considered one of the best Universities in the country, so I know you had to take history classes."

"Of course I remember. What does that have to do with anything?"

"There's a saying 'he who does not learn from history is condemned to repeat it'. Now, tell me what you learned about the history of Germany from the end of World War I until the beginning of World War II?"

"Oh, for God's sake! You're not going to draw some facile comparisons between Hitler and the Nazi Party and Trump and the Republican party. Godwin's Law? really dad?"

"Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it's not true."

"Look, dad, just be careful, ok. You can say this to me, I won't say anything, but if you say it in the wrong place, to the wrong person, you could be in trouble: trouble I won't be able to help you with."

"My point exactly. I can't say what I think without looking over my shoulder for the police."

"Because it's treason."

"Four years ago, it wasn't treason. Four years ago, it was freedom of speech."

"Just don't say anymore, Dad. I can ignore it, someone else might not."

"Like your new fiancé?"

"Don't bring him into this. Look, dad, I have a job to do. I don't want you to become part of my job."

"What is your job, Kate? Tell me about it."

"My job is keeping people safe. My job is stopping dangerous people from hurting others."

"What defines a dangerous person?"

"People who break the law to the detriment of the country and its people."

"You sound like you're reciting some sort of catechism."

"My whole life has been about upholding the law and protecting people."

"Doesn't it worry you that some of those laws actually harm people?"

"There's a greater good."

"Katie, you used to use your own judgement to determine what the greater good was. You used to be more flexible and generous."

"There are new parameters."

"I know, and they keep changing, getting narrower, less flexible, more exclusive. Yesterday it was Muslims, people of color, gay people. Today it's the poor. Who will it be tomorrow?"

"You're exaggerating. Dad, this conversation is over. You've gone over the line and if you keep doing it, I won't be able to protect you. I'm going for a walk." She turned and walked toward the master bedroom.

"Katie. One question. Will you protect Martha and Alexis?"

"If they don't break the law, they'll be fine."

"So, no."

"I'm done with this conversation. I don't want to hear anymore."

She walked out the door, leaving her father staring after her

It was a short walk to a small park tucked between buildings. She found a bench and sat with her eyes closed. Her father's comments frightened her. She had lost so much and she didn't want to lose him. But if he continued talking and thinking as he had a few minutes ago, she wouldn't be able to protect him.

She stifled a sob. The problems with the new administration weren't her fault. People could adapt; she had. But, maybe, just maybe the problems in her personal life could be put, in part, on her. He had gone on the book tour with her blessing and, though the political activities had not been discussed, it had been understood that they were part of the package – and it was the political part of the tour that had temporarily prevented her from contacting him when she had miscarried. And when he came home … when he came home. They should have been comforting each other but instead she had taken her anger and fear out on him. Even then he would have stayed and weathered the storm with her, but someone had gotten wind of his actions on the tour and had subpoenaed his presence before a Congressional committee where they had presumed his guilt and, without a hearing, sentenced him to 're-education'. She had used what pull she had, and had him spirited out of the city. Then she had filed for divorce.

She looked up, it was nearly dark. She had to get home.


	6. Chapter 6

There were dreams: not nightmares, dreams. This made them worse, because when he woke, he woke to a nightmare: a nightmare of political chaos and life without his wife, his daughter, his mother, his former life.

Sometimes, in the dreams, nothing changed, he was still a nationally celebrated writer with millions of fans, millions of dollars, a wife he adored, a daughter on whom he doted, an annoying but much-loved mother, and friends he treasured. Trump hadn't been elected, Pence wasn't President, and all was right with the world.

Sometimes, in the dreams, Kate hadn't miscarried, they were together in the resistance, fighting side by side, his mother and daughters safe with them.

It didn't matter, the dreams were almost always better than the reality.

The latest dream was one of the exceptions; it scared him. It was too real and too dreamlike at the same time. It was like a shared memory of something that had never happened – or maybe of something that was going to happen in some vague future – surreal as Hell. He jolted awake, sweating. He needed to talk to someone.

He staggered into the kitchen looking for coffee, even the vile sludge made by his father would do. He found it, poured a cup and doctored it with powdered milk and brown sugar. It wasn't his father's vile sludge, it was the incrementally better sludge made by Espo.

He sat, sipping the drink, trying to make sense of the dream.

He knew he wouldn't be alone for very long. And, sure enough, Vikram and Lanie wandered in to interrupt his reverie. He was grateful.

Lanie looked at him quizzically. Vikram followed suit. Suddenly, he found himself flanked by his friends, two pairs of dark brown eyes staring at him. He looked from one to the other.

"Ok, Castle, what gives?" Lanie was nothing if not to the point.

"Nothing. Just another dream."

"Not one of the usual variety, I can tell that. So, give."

"I'm not sure I can. I think I need to process it more."

"Process it out loud."

"Well, Kate was there. So were my mother and Alexis – and Meredith and Gina." He paused, "and KittyCat." He continued, "It felt like a cross between a Riverboat show – you know, like Showboat – and a Greek tragedy. Mother was the Interlocutor and Alexis, Meredith, and Gina were the chorus." Lanie and Vikram were giving him their undivided attention, which creeped him out.

"Kittycat was nearly grown – maybe 16 or 17 – she looked like Alexis melded with Kate with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. She was telling me not to call her Kittycat anymore, she was too old for silly nicknames. Kate stood behind her. They were all standing behind her: all staring at me. They had nothing to do with each other. You could tell they were completely separate, yet completely united against me. It felt like I had lost all of them. Kate was telling me that I could still protect her, I just had to want to do it. Mother was explaining to the audience why she was saying this. Alexis and the chorus were chanting that even if I wanted to, I couldn't protect them." He shuddered involuntarily. "I felt like Alexis was ok with me not being able to protect her, like she could protect herself and would protect me when the time came, but the others were angry and vengeful and only Alexis was holding them back. God, someone in the background was playing a damned banjo."

He looked straight at Lanie, "I don't get it. Kate has FBI boy to protect her, and I'm perfectly well aware that I can't protect Alexis and Mother, as much as I wish I could."

Lanie and Vikram exchanged looks. "Maybe, Rick, Kate needs to be protected from FBI boy. Besides, you're talking like this is some sort of prediction or something."

He got his back up, just a little, "there have been documented cases of …"

"No, there have been anecdotes and third hand accounts, there are no such things as psychic dreams. You're under stress. The politics is wearing you down. And you've got Kate too much on your mind. The dreams are about what's in your head that you won't acknowledge, not about New Age Woo Woo stuff."

Kate looked at Sorenson in shock. "What do you mean, we can't get married?"

"Just what I said, we can't get married. The government doesn't recognize your divorce. As far as they're concerned, you're still married … and married to a traitor."

"Castle's the traitor, not me." She fairly screamed.

"Guilt by association." Sorenson smiled. "Look, I know you're not a traitor. I know you're solidly with the government, but, until Castle is brought in for trial and then executed, I can't marry you. I'm endangering my career just talking to you." He picked up his coat and turned to leave. "I'd suggest that you double down on your efforts to find and arrest him, it would go a long way in your favor to be the one who brought him in. In the meantime, I think we should keep our contact on a professional basis and minimize that – just until the situation is resolved. You know, I understand that he's very fond of his mother and daughter." He looked at her pointedly and walked out.

She slowly sank onto the couch, mouth open, looking stunned.

Her father, who had been sitting quietly in the study, unseen by both, walked into the room. "Well, there's an interesting wrinkle. I hope you're not going to seriously consider sacrificing Martha and Alexis on the altar of his ambition."

"He … he.." She stammered. "He's only interested in doing the right thing."

"Yes, the right thing for him. He has no intention of marrying you. You'll bring Castle in, he'll take the credit. Your job will be safe, until another 'problem' comes up – maybe Espo or Lanie. But he'll never marry you, he'll string you along and sleep with you as long as you're useful, but he'll marry for political advantage. You're not politically advantageous."

"You don't know what you're talking about. He loves me. He'll take care of me and protect me. Something Castle didn't do."

"Kate, when did you become so … dependent? When did you stop being smart and independent? Where is my daughter – the young woman who'd storm the fort, guns blazing and damn the consequences? What happened to loving someone without having to need him? God, Katie! If you can't take care of yourself, who can you take care of?" He turned towards the front door, "Your mother wouldn't recognize you; I hardly recognize you."

"Dad, where are you going?"

"Out for a while."

"Please, don't leave. Too many people have left."

"Maybe you've driven too many away."

He shut the door quietly. Kate was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Kate jerked awake at the noise. It had been hard for her to get to sleep; it usually was these days; and Kate jerked awake at the noise. It had been hard for her to get to sleep; it usually was these days; and harder still to stay asleep – any little thing woke her. Fortunately, the disturbance was just her father, coming back after his dramatic exit earlier.

She padded into the living room to greet him, hoping he hadn't slid off the wagon – an eventuality that worried her increasingly these days.

"Dad?" She turned on the living room lights.

He stood there, staring at her as if she were a stranger. He looked haggard, but she didn't smell liquor; that was a small relief.

"I'm glad you're back, I was concerned about you." She went to the kitchen. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No, Katie, no coffee. What I want is to talk."

"I thought we'd done that yesterday afternoon." She sounded a little bitter.

"Not about the right things; not in the right way."

"Oh." She busied herself grinding beans and readying the coffee maker. She looked at the clock – 4:30 am, might as well stay up, she thought. Once the coffee maker was filled and working, she looked in the fridge – bacon, eggs, a package of hash browns – suddenly she was hungry. She had a suspicion about the topic of conversation and the outcome and she was going to avoid it for as long as possible. "Breakfast?"

"Katie, you can try to avoid this, but you'll have to face it sooner or later – and, for your own sake it should be sooner."

"What, dad? What should I face? I've faced more than any woman should have to face. What else is there to face?"

"The one thing you've never faced – the possibility that you're wrong."

She snorted a humorless laugh. "It appears I'm wrong about a great many things; what am I wrong about this time?"

"Don't try to sidestep of this, Kate. You're very good at that. You pretend: you're good at pretending. But deep down, you've never really admitted you're wrong about anything. It's always someone else that's wrong, not you, not really."

"Fine. I'll bite. What am I wrong about?" She stood facing him, arms crossed, radiating impatience and righteousness.

Her dad rolled his eyes heavenward, but continued on, "I know I'm going to get nowhere with this, but I'm saying it anyway. You're wrong about Rick, you're wrong about Sorenson, and you are _absolutely_ wrong in what you're doing."

" _What_ am I doing that's wrong, dad? I'm doing my job. I'm enforcing the law; I'm protecting and serving; I took an oath and I'm living by it. How is that wrong?"

"There's more to an oath than keeping it. There are considerations – who are you protecting and serving? The people of New York or the politicians who are hurting them? You used to have strong principles about corrupt politicians; where did they go? What laws are you enforcing? Do you ever question them? Are they ethical or self-serving? When did you become a functionary doing a job and not a cop passionate about justice?"

"Things change, dad, people change."

"Not that much, Katie. People don't change that much. Unless you're undercover, playing the long game…" He looked at her hopefully.

"No, no games, not undercover. Not playing at anything. People who keep their heads down survive. People who buck the government don't."

"You've become a coward?" Is that it? I can't believe that."

"I've become a realist. This won't last. I'll be here when it falls. I'll be here to keep order when it falls and after, and I'll keep order until it happens."

"Sorry, Katydid, _they_ won't let you do that. People who keep their heads down don't survive, they just postpone the inevitable."

"I have to believe that I'll survive."

"Even if you live through this, you won't survive. You're already half dead and you don't even know it. You continue to betray yourself like this, you might as well kill yourself." He turned away from her. "Anyway, I can't stay. If I stay, you won't be able to keep your head down, you won't be able to hide from them, from the truth, and from what you're doing to yourself." He handed her a paper. "If you need to find me. If you change your mind. That's how you find me." He looked her in the eye. "Katydid, people love you. I love you. Whether you believe it or not, Rick loves you. Remember that. Above all things, remember that. Remember that we didn't leave you. You left us." He walked out the door.

She stared at the door, unmoving, for a long time after he left. Then she turned and put the uncooked food away and turned the coffeemaker off; she'd lost her appetite, and suddenly she had a fierce headache. The note her father had given her went unnoticed on the counter as she went back to bed. She would call in sick, she decided, she needed a mental health day.

She slept fitfully, as usual. She woke groggy and nauseous. She went into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth and ended up staring at herself in the mirror, almost not recognizing who she was looking at. Who was that haggard, hollow-eyed woman? When had that gray hair appeared? She shivered; she had the uncomfortable sensation that she was looking at her future.

She dressed and went in to the kitchen to make some coffee.

Taking her coffee and some dry toast into the dining room, she casually picked up the note and looked at it – there were ten numbers – a phone number. That was all. She felt compelled to memorize it and destroy the note.

Then she sat, staring at nothing. Her coffee and toast went cold. Was she, she wondered, really half dead? Was she dying inside, killing herself. She wasn't going to allow herself to be deluded by the notion that anyone loved her. If they did, they would be with her now. She wouldn't be alone. But, maybe she did need to re-evaluate what she was doing and why. She was discovering that she didn't like herself very much. She wouldn't allow herself to think Castle cared, that would be too much. But maybe she _had_ shut the others out. Maybe they were just waiting for her, maybe she could talk to them, make them see the sense of what she was doing, why she was doing it. Maybe she could get their help in bringing Castle in. That would go a long way towards convincing Sorenson and his superiors that she was an asset. Again, she shuddered. Sorenson's words rankled – maybe she should be having second thoughts about him. With these scattered and incoherent thoughts, she dozed off and fell into a dream that she wouldn't remember but that would haunt her.


	8. Chapter 8

Alexis shut the door quietly behind her; she didn't want to disturb her grandmother who had been suffering from insomnia lately. Worry about her son, Alexis' father, and ill health was taking its toll.

In the cramped, dingy kitchen, she unloaded the groceries – not a lot and not the best, but money was tight and the stores she could get to didn't carry much anyway – and started dinner. She mixed eggs for omelets aux fines herbs and made a rather sad looking salad of kale, tomatoes, cucumber, and cheese dressed with simple oil and vinegar.

She set everything out on the table then went to, regretfully, wake Martha. If she hadn't been sleeping well, she hadn't been eating at all. Alexis was hoping that her favorite omelet would rouse her flagging appetite.

Just as she reached the bedroom door, Martha opened it. "I smelled something delicious, Alexis." She moved toward the kitchen, waving off her granddaughter's arm. "I can still move on my own, darling, however slowly it may be."

Alexis served her grandmother dinner and was gratified to note that she ate everything put in front of her. "The omelet was divine, dear. The salad, though, was a bit – "she searched for a suitable word "- despondent. I've never been fond of kale. One makes do, though."

"I'm just glad you ate something, Gram; I've been worried about you."

Martha patted her hand, "I know, sweetheart, and I'm sorry to be a worry to you. I'll do better, I promise. There wouldn't happen to be something sweet, would there?" She smiled encouragingly.

"We have some strawberries; they're not the freshest, but we've had worse." She went to the kitchen counter and busied herself cleaning and cutting up the berries. She sprinkled a little sugar on them, spritzed a little fake, canned whipped topping on them and, with a flourish, presented them to Martha. "Berries a la Marthe, Madame." She gave her grandmother a smile that tried to be cheerful and upbeat but succeeded only in trying too hard.

She had kept dinnertime conversation light and inconsequential. Now she had to steel herself. What she had to say to her grandmother would be hard. The actions they would have to take would be harder.

"Gram, we need to talk."

"The last time I heard those words, dear, was the day before my second husband left me." Martha got up from the table and took her dishes to the counter. "What's so serious?'

"Several things." Alexis took a deep breath, "First, I was stopped by IDETF* on my way to the Agency. They're doing ID checks every day now. It took them thirty minutes to run my ID, and I almost didn't get it back. It was different from the usual harassment."

"Different?"

Alexis nodded. "You know the usual nonsense, catcalling, sexual innuendo, the odd bit of groping. That was gone. It was very serious, almost professional. They gave me a summons. In two days, I have to report to the Office of Women's Affairs and Gender Equity."

"That's a new one."

Alexis showed her grandmother a pamphlet. "It's all in here. Congress passed another one of its secret bills. Unmarried women between the ages of 16 and 55 have to register."

"For what?"

"It looks like it's some sort of … marriage draft."

"What?!"

Alexis read from the pamphlet. "Women between the ages of 16 and 55 are particularly vulnerable to assault and harassment. It is noted that married women have protections that unmarried women lack. It is the intent of the law to extend the protection of marriage to every unmarried woman. To that end all unmarried women between the ages of 16 and 55 will register with OfWAGE. They will be listed, with all their vital statistics (birthdate, height, weight, ethnicity, religion, family, genetics and other relevant information) in the registry of unmarried women. This registry will be made available to any suitable unmarried man at his or his family's request. Exceptions will be made for – women in the military, women in police work, nuns (apart from non-Christian nuns e.g. Buddhists and the like), non-citizens (women wanting citizenship, however, must register)." She shuddered. "They also have a _suggested_ dress code for married and unmarried women. Unmarried women, according to this, should basically dress in sacks covering them from head to toe – kind of like a burqa – to keep men from being overwhelmed with temptation."

"That bad!?"

"Almost. Suggested colors for unmarried women – beige, black, off-white, gray, navy blue, maroon, brown, baby blue, baby pink, olive green, mustard yellow, eggplant." She shuddered again. "Suggested styles – untailored, unfitted, ankle-length, long-sleeved, high-necked, no belts – might as well be a sack. Hats – strongly recommended – and they should cover all the hair and be wide brimmed enough to hide the face."

"No young woman will put up with this! Oh, Hell, no old woman would put up with it. Simply unacceptable!"

"It gets worse. You should see what they have for women your age and married women." She handed the offending pamphlet to Martha.

"Well, they _are_ just suggestions."

"Read the pamphlet. Suggestions, yes, but if we don't follow those suggestions, and we get assaulted, we'll be held responsible, not the assailant."

Martha scanned the pamphlet. "They're calling it freedom of choice. Meaning you choose to be assaulted or you choose to give up your freedom and still be assaulted. You said that was the first thing that happened; what else was there?"

"Sorenson came by the office.

"Sorenson? That FBI drone who's after my ex-daughter-in-law?"

"The very one."

"What did he want?"

"Oh, a lot of things. He wanted to tell me that it was considered inappropriate for a woman to be running a detective agency. Oh, and a bar. He was giving me a 'heads up' about a new bill under consideration that would require women owning such _inappropriate_ businesses to put them in trust or hand them over to a _trusted man_ to run on their behalf. If they didn't do it voluntarily, it would be done for them. He volunteered to be the _trusted man._ "

Not in so many words, I'm sure."

"He spent a good hour beating around the bush before he finally whacked it to death." She finished washing the last dish, Martha started drying. "He proposed."

Martha dropped the dish she was drying. It shattered on the counter. "What did you say?" She whispered.

"I asked about Beckett. He just smiled. Said she was a non-issue since her divorce from Dad was never recognized; they're still married." She looked at the sink she was wiping down. "He laid out this whole plan – marry me: sue Beckett for the loft, the Hamptons' house, the farm, and Dad's money – on the grounds that she abandoned Dad, lost his baby under suspicious circumstances, and rendered herself incapable of having more children. He says if I marry him, he'll call off the hunt for Dad and his friends."

"I hope you said no. No, I hope you said Hell, no, not even if Hell froze over and pigs flew."

"I said I'd think about it, that I had to talk to you first. I told him that he should think about it, too, because you were part of the deal."

"Oh, no, Alexis, you didn't."

"Then I called the number Ethan gave me."

"Oh."

"That's the rest of it, Gram. Sorenson wants my answer in 48 hours. We have that much time to pack what we need – only as much as we can carry easily – and meet his people. And you have to come with me, Gram, because if I'm not here you'll be on your own and they aren't nice to unprotected older women."

*ID Enforcement Task Force


	9. Chapter 9

"Only what you absolutely need, Gram. No more. Medications, change of underwear, the clothes on your back, money, ID – that's it. We won't be able to carry things like scrapbooks or pictures."

"Oh Alexis, I know they're just things, but they're things attached to memories. I don't know if I can leave them. Maybe I should stay and you can go without me. I'll be fine."

"Gram, you won't be fine. You know what happens to older women who are alone. If you stay, I stay. You're more important to me than things."

Martha stiffened. "No, you're right. We have to go. I'll get it together, darling, I promise. I just hate the thought of having our things, such as they are, fall into the hands of Sorenson and his sort."

"Better our things than us."

The two women went through the apartment. Alexis worked methodically, consigning most of the detritus of her life to the trash pile – the rest went into a sturdy backpack. Martha was less methodical, pausing occasionally to look sorrowfully at one item or another and caress it gently; but eventually she, too, had filled a backpack with only what was needed. Finally, they were finished.

"Gram, we should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long, difficult day."

"Yes, dear, you're right. Darling, what if he comes back while we're still here? What if he decides not to wait for 48 hours."

Alexis looked at her. She held up her iPhone. "Panic button."

Martha smiled and nodded.

After the older woman retired to the bedroom, Alexis looked through her "trash": jewelry, books, costume pieces, old programs and playbills, some plays, pictures, make-up and perfume – the relics of a life. She nearly cried.

She was young, she thought, she would make more memories and more memorabilia. Martha was nearly 80 and in ill-health; it really was unfair to ask her to give up everything that had meaning to her. She knew, she thought, the things that her grandmother particularly treasured. She dug through the pile and found them – a ratty old teddy bear that had been her father's when he was a toddler; it wasn't very big and would easily fit in her backpack: a picture she had drawn when she was five or six – It was of them as a family, her father, her grandmother, and her, done in all the colors of the rainbow – it went into the backpack with the bear: Finally, there was a photograph of a man – young and handsome, who had a little of her father in his features – her grandfather. She'd give these to her grandmother as soon as she could after they left.

She stood up. She was as reluctant as her grandmother to see their memories end up in Sorenson's hands. She bundled them up in trash bags then started carrying them downstairs – into the bar's office, then to the basement, to the secret door her father and Beckett had discovered what seemed like a lifetime ago. She would put as much down here as she could. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

She didn't sleep that night.

At 7:00 am she was up and dressed

At 7:30 there was a knock at the door.

Before she could answer the door, Sorenson threw it open and entered. "Have you come to a decision yet?"

"I thought I had 48 hours."

"I thought I'd drop by and give you a little encouragement." He smiled like a shark.

"I'm still thinking about it."

"No, the time for thinking is over. I'll tell you your answer. I've got the license, we're going to City Hall now. We'll be married before noon."

"You got the license without me? I thought I had to be there, to sign papers."

"The law says no. You don't have to be there. Hell, you don't even have to be at the ceremony. I can have a proxy stand for you."

"Without my consent?"

"That's the beauty of it, your consent isn't, strictly speaking, necessary. If the proxy offers consent in your place, that's all that's needed."

"That's not acceptable!"

"Look, Alexis, give your consent or not, it doesn't matter. The law, as interpreted by the State of New York, requires women over the age of 16 to get married; the only consent needed is from a parent or guardian. Since your father is not here, and your grandmother, being a woman, doesn't qualify, you're a ward of the State – and the State consents. I'm here as a courtesy to you – I'd really like your consent. But with or without it, you're marrying me. And you're damned lucky to have me – you're the daughter of a traitor."

She stared at him in utter horror.

"Ok, without your consent it is. I'm leaving some of my men to guard you. I'll be back at 10:30. You be ready to go home with me. Tell your grandmother to be ready to go too. I'll send people to clean this up." He waved his hand at the apartment.

She stood for what seemed like days, staring at the door. When she finally forced herself to move, it was like an old woman, as if every part of her body hurt. She went to the door and looked through the peephole. There were two men, one on either side of the door. The view outside the windows was just as discouraging. She walked slowly to the bedroom.

"Gram?"

"I'm awake, dear. I heard it all. Deplorable man."

"You know we're not going to be together if this happens."

"I know."

Alexis retrieved her phone, pulled up a number, and hit call and hung up. "Panic button." She said. "Now we wait."

A few minutes later, the phone rang. When Alexis answered, a voice said, "when?"

"Now." The phone went dead. "We need to get ready, Gram." Alexis picked up the backpacks and handed one to Martha. "That one's not mine, sweetheart." Alexis shook her head at her grandmother. "It is now."

They sat huddled together in the center of the room, waiting for an eternity. Then there was a sound of scuffling outside the door and the sound of two muffled pops. Two men burst through the door making simultaneous beckoning and shushing motions. Another man and a woman waited outside. The two women grabbed their packs and fled.

Alexis led them to the storeroom in the back. "Did you bring it?"

The man nodded.

"Good. It's not going to be safe going on the street, so we'll need to use the back entrance."

"If we use the alley, it will only delay things a minute or two."

"I know. I wasn't thinking of the alley." She led them to the bolt hole. "This leads to the river, and unless they know what they're looking for, they won't be able to find it easily." She led them to the other side of the door. "The door is fireproof, so set the timer and let's go." The man set three devices in various parts of the bar and set the timer for five minutes. Alexis closed and bolted the door. In five minutes, they were a quarter of the way to the river. They heard a muffled 'whump' and felt the ground shake. Alexis looked at her phone – 10:25. "I hope Sorenson was in the bar." She muttered. The moved on as swiftly as they could. In fifteen minutes, they reached the water.

One of their rescuers, the woman, had her phone out. "Location change." She said quietly, "sending coordinates now." She closed the phone. "We might as well get comfortable, ladies, we're going to be here until dark."


	10. Chapter 10

Kate Beckett stood outside the burning building. She stared into the fire, entranced, for several seconds. Then she shook her head, shaking off memories. She had no time for memories. She signaled Ryan and they walked to the waiting service vehicles. She stopped abruptly when she noticed who was reclining on a gurney by the lone ambulance, then started again, this time in the direction of the person. She was, she thought, exactly like a moth – drawn to the flame that could kill her.

"Sorenson." She spit out the name. "What are you doing here?"

He looked at her, bleary-eyed and wincing. "Same as you, I expect." He choked out. "I got a call from one of my people saying there was some suspicious activity here. I got to the door and the place exploded. I'm lucky to be alive." He paused. "I doubt that anyone in there can say the same."

Kate pointed to the upstairs windows. "You know that Alexis and Martha lived up there and that this bar belonged to them?" She stepped back to let an EMT through.

The EMT finished swiftly – checking Sorenson's injuries – mostly 2nd, and some 3rd degree, burns over his hands and face, abrasions from being thrown by the force of the explosion, a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, and other, less obvious, injuries. She treated what she could and administered morphine, then she and another EMT lifted the gurney into the ambulance.

"Where are you taking him? I'm going to need to question him." She showed her badge, just to be sure they understood.

"Good Samaritan. But he's already out. Won't be in any shape to be questioned for a few hours."

Kate nodded curtly. She was inwardly furious, but it would be unfair to unleash it at the EMTs who were only doing their job. Somewhere the tiny hope surfaced that some of those 'less obvious' injuries were life-threatening and exquisitely painful. She quickly squashed it. She wished she could talk to her therapist, but he had disappeared after refusing to share patient records with the DOJ. This elicited a small, fugitive smile – he had destroyed the records before they got to them. She shook her head – she found herself doing this a lot lately – shaking thoughts from her head and going forward.

She turned toward the building and the firefighters; looking for the captain. She located him and strode in his direction.

"Captain -" she looked for his name tag, "- Peterson." She held up her badge. "I'm Captain Beckett, NYPD, Counter-Insurgency Unit." She continued. "We suspect that this might have been arson used to cover up underground activities. I would appreciate it if you would share any evidence you find with my office." She handed him her card and indicated Ryan. "Detective Ryan will be your liaison and will stay here with you to help." She turned to Ryan. "Kevin, I need you to report back to me on a regular basis. I need to know how many bodies there are, what started the fire, and if there are any, unlikely as it may be, survivors. You know the drill."

She thought about telling the firefighter about the secret, fireproof door in the basement, but decided against it. If they found it, fine: if they didn't, fine. She looked up at the blaze. Something didn't feel right about it. It wasn't just the probability of arson, arson was a given. But she didn't trust Sorenson's reasons for being here. There were underlying motives that she was going to find. She hoped Alexis and Martha had not been among the casualties. She felt oddly free. She had a real case now, something she could understand – arson and, possibly, murder. This wasn't harassing and tormenting people who, in any other situation would be innocent, this was a real crime and she was going to find the answers. She got in her car, instructing the driver to drop her at her office and then to put himself at Ryan's disposal.

It took a good day to get the fire under control; exploding bottles of liquor had added alcohol to the mix, making the fire burn longer and hotter. In the kitchen, unused for the past two years, old grease and oil contributed. It was a nasty fire and, in the end it took out nearly half a block of historic buildings before it was extinguished. It took another day for it to cool enough for the investigators to take over.

Ryan had stayed the entire time, dozing in the back of the car, eating and drinking whatever the firefighters ate and drank. He called his wife to reassure her and to let her know what happened. They were both concerned about Alexis and Martha, but said nothing.

When, finally, he entered the smoldering remains of the bar, he was exhausted and angry. He wanted to get up to the second-floor apartment, but knew it would be dangerous until they could get scaffolding in place. He itched to call the CSI unit, but with budget cuts and layoffs, the Unit was virtually non-existent – staffed by less than 5 people and stripped of equipment. For a Crime Scene analysis, he'd have to call the FBI and, with Sorenson's apparent involvement, that wouldn't be advisable – at least not until he'd had a chance to look the place over.

He explained to Captain Peterson that two women with connections to the resistance had lived in the apartment, hoping that would get him some help.

Peterson heard 'two women' but appeared to miss the part about the resistance. "Doubtful they're still alive if they were up there. Did you know them?"

Ryan nodded.

"Then you'll want to know." He signaled a couple of his firefighters. "Detective Ryan needs to see the upstairs apartment. You want to help him out?" He turned to Ryan. "Family?"

"Close." Ryan responded. "The mother and daughter of a close friend."

The man eyed Ryan shrewdly. "Two women alone. I guess this close friend is either dead or 'out of town'. When you're finished looking, come back here and talk to me."

It didn't take long for the two firefighters – named Logan and Courtney – to get the flooring under the apartment shored up enough to support them and to get Ryan suited up in protective gear. Soon the three of them were in the hall in front of the apartment. He prodded one of the two charred bodies splayed in front of the door.

"Crispy critters." Said Logan. "Probably not the women, though, too big and no tits."

It took a little effort to get the door open. The fire had warped the wood. But they finally got in.

"Detective Ryan, what are we looking for?"

"Anything out of place. I think I'll know it when I see it, but don't discount anything."

The three spread out and began a methodical search. The living/dining room was done quickly. There had been very little in there – a couch, a chair, a table, a lamp, a bookcase, a small TV – most of it burned and damaged by smoke, fire, water, and fire retardant. A couple of piles of burned trash rested next to the door. Ryan directed Courtney, the female firefighter, to the bedroom and Logan to the bathroom. Those rooms had been less damaged by the fire – mostly it was smoke and heat. He, himself, went into the kitchen. He looked through cupboards, in the oven, and, finally in the refrigerator. With some effort, he managed to pull the freezer door open. It was a soggy mess. Because the refrigerator was insulated however, while ice had melted and food had been pretty much spoiled, nothing was destroyed. He found a small metal box. Opening it, he found two envelopes, both sealed, one addressed to him and one to Beckett. Other than the envelopes, there was nothing of interest in the kitchen. He tossed the box out the open window.

He met the firefighters back in the living room. "Anything?" he said.

"Not much – some clothes, some papers, nothing relevant." Courtney offered.

"Pretty much the same in the bathroom – the usual stuff you'd see in bathroom. Good thing is – no bodies. They must not have been home." Logan looked down. "Would have been a hideous way to die – literally cooked to death." He appeared slightly green.

The three of them shuddered.

Ryan had time to change out of the firefighter's gear before the FBI arrived. The letters were in an inside pocket, out of sight.

He had a hurried discussion with Captain Peterson before he left: surreptitiously letting him know that he suspected that the FBI had something to do with the fire. He was gambling that the firefighter had no love for the Bureau and would hinder, as much as he could, the FBI investigation.

Once in the car, he called Beckett, then directed the driver to the loft.

He told Kate what he'd found. That there were two bodies upstairs – not Alexis or Martha – and six downstairs – again, not Alexis or Martha. The preliminary hypothesis was that all eight were dead before the fire started. He handed her the envelope. "Someone, Alexis I suspect, hid this in the refrigerator for you." She took it without a word and turned away. Then she turned back and said, "Ryan, go home. Take the next couple of days off. You look like Hell."

He mock saluted and left.

As he walked away, he took out the envelope addressed to him. On the enclosed paper, there was a ten-digit number.

Kate went into the office and sat at the desk. She put the envelope down in front of her and looked at it for several minutes. Then she opened it.

 _Kate:_

 _In spite of our differences, I feel you have a right to know what's going on. Sorenson approached me with an offer of marriage. There's no painless way to say this but, I suspect that, because of the way the new laws are written, we may already be married. Since, as he's pointed out, consent on my part is not required and that, indeed, my physical presence isn't needed. He's told me that he's going to sue you, as my husband, for the loft, the house, the farm, and the money, using your miscarriage as grounds. He is, in short, prepared to drag you through the mud to get Dad's possessions. Be careful._

 _Alexis_

Kate smiled mirthlessly.


End file.
